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THE MIGRATION: FLASH FICTION BY STEPHANIE KNARR

TWO FLASH FICTION STORIES BY MICHAEL PRIHODA
July 7, 2019
TWO FLASH FICTION STORIES BY ALLIE KUBU
July 9, 2019

The Migration

 

Stuck inside these four walls, protected by nothing but a several thick pieces of wood, our wits keeping us from tearing each other apart, insulated but still at-risk. The more than one-hundred slashes decorating the walls – documenting how long we’ve managed to survive despite the unlikelihood – are a testament to our ability to survive despite everything.

It’s not time, we’re convinced it’s too early to leave? Why trust the government, when they were the ones to unleash this hell, all the while denying it even existed. As cities crumbled and society fell to ruin, they had no choice but to reluctantly confess the mess they created.

We’re heard the message. Over radio static, they said it was contained. But with a pile of corpses outside decomposing in the hot August sun, their organs splayed out beside them, none of us can be too cautious.

We grab our guns. We’re practically joined at the hip, married to them in a way. Never go anywhere alone, we team up – the eight of us that remain in this cramped cabin – and knock the boards down.

Quietly opening the door, we venture outside, looking left and right twice each time.

“Coast is clear,” I mutter with a protective layer of doubt. “Keep checking though. Can never be too cautious.”

The terrain is desolate, devoid of life. The brown grass and the decaying trees are the only evidence that this is the Earth we once called home. Now it’s a post-apocalyptic wasteland, engineered by the government and left to us – these eight resourceful souls – to rebuild.

“I see nothing, Jack. Let’s find an exit point and just roll,” a voice in the back suggested.

“Yeah, let’s find the van and get out of here. It’s making me uneasy,” another voice agreed.

“I doubt it’s got any fuel,” I said. “Damn infecteds probably tore it to shreds anyway. Let’s keep walking.”

As we continue, I begin to cool down and warm up to the idea that perhaps it was all over. I chuckle to myself at this. “All over,” I thought. “Doesn’t matter much when everything you know is gone.”

We reach the city, with its high-rise buildings towering over dead cities. The windows are smashed and cars rust. Here we are and here we will stay, at least until we have no option but to run.

 

 


Stephanie Knarr is a queer/trans femme writer who recently moved to Pittsburgh, PA from the Harrisburg, PA area.

She tries to maintain a blog – which she has titled “Just Another Bitch In the City” – but admits it gets hard to keep to a consistent schedule sometimes. Despite all this, she has other publishing credits to prove that she has written – most notably for Harrisburg’s local magazine, The Burg.

Her favorite drink is Coca-Cola, and her favorite band is probably Animal Collective.